


Caught

by lonerofthepack



Series: Taken 'verse [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Failed escape, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, On the Run, Torture, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonerofthepack/pseuds/lonerofthepack
Summary: He's so close he doesn't dare let himself think it.If he gets through the doors, there's maybe a hundred feet of courtyard, that he was able to glimpse through windows and walks around; and then he should be able to apparate.Part of the Taken 'verse, exploring the age-old trope: what about Nurmengard?
Relationships: implied Original Percival Graves/Gellert Grindelwald (non-con)
Series: Taken 'verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951963
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Caught

**Author's Note:**

> 05\. Where Do You Think You’re Going?: On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue -- no rescue

He waits for a six-count, and darts a glance out into the threshold. He breathes through the pulsing pain of the collar, wrestles down nausea, and risks another glance.

Clear.

He's so close he doesn't dare let himself think it. 

If he gets through the doors, there's maybe a hundred feet of courtyard, that he was able to glimpse through windows and walks around; and then he should be able to apparate. To— Berlin is likely closest; though Calais might be better. His French is rusty, but his German is terrible and always has been. Not quite up to snuff for running from one of the most powerful Dark wizards of the age.

He checks again, and darts across the hall. The bare feet and scanty clothes are a problem, but he'll manage. The aches and pains are worse, but he'll manage them too.

The door creaks— he freezes but forces himself to look, and to look calmly, not to show the pound of panic in his heart. If he's caught, he can lie about having gotten lost, or about wanting to see the mountains from a different vantage point.

The courtyard is, somehow, clear. The gates stand open. It's more than a hundred feet to  _ them _ , but the main wards sit just inside.

Walk or run? He can’t hear anything that indicates someone’s watching, and any delay increases his chances of getting caught. Running leaves him no excuses, though — he risks missing some sign that he ought to retreat, and taking a curse in the back if he runs. He’ll carve up his feet as well, which isn’t ideal at all — the cobbles are rougher out in the courtyard.

Little for it. He goes, at not quite a jog.

Slips through the wards, feels them rippling over him, his forward momentum bringing him up under the visual safety of the gates.

He hasn’t got a wand, but he’s always been decent without one, and he’s never been more focused on anything in his life,  _ escape _ a klaxon scream in his head just behind all the calculation needed to make it happen. He gathers himself on a breath, and thinks of Calais.

The pain hits him like a brick to the temple, blinding and all-consuming, and it fells him, drags him gagging to his knees.

“Oh, Director, that was a _very_ good attempt.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you very much!


End file.
